


something to hold onto with both hands

by reclamation



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: The thing is, Lavellan says the words as easily as breathing, with troubling sincerity, again and again and again.





	something to hold onto with both hands

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works. Originally published for [this kink meme prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12606.html?thread=49898558#t49898558).

The thing is, Lavellan says the words as easily as breathing, with troubling sincerity, again and again and again.

 

v. Haste

Dorian scoffs the first time he hears the title ‘the Herald of Andraste.’ Loudly.

The whispers of the ‘Herald’ come with the sort of reverence reserved for the especially gullible—that is, those who need _something_ to believe in. They say the Herald will save Thedas, the world, and it sounds like a story meant to reassure a child.

After all, the world is quite literally unravelling right in front of their eyes.

When he was younger and more likely to take things as truth, Dorian used to devour the stories and legends. Now, he still reads everything he can get his hands on—lore, histories, popular fiction—but he takes pride in his skepticism. The heroes in those stories, even the impossibly well-intentioned and self-sacrificing ones, never do things the proper way and manage to save the day regardless. Upon victory, they are either fêted or dead. The part about dying young and bloody he believes. It may be the only part he believes.

The rumors of this Herald do make him curious, though.

Their meeting is memorable: the air above their heads throbs in a sickly green miniature of the sky outside as they dispatch the demons smoothly. The Dalish elf—not yet Inquisitor—cuts a more imposing figure than expected. There’s steel in his unwavering gaze.

And he’s not nearly as power-hungry as Dorian might have expected of a person lifted to quasi-prophet status.

Then, a handful of days later, they’re stranded in the future together. It is even more broken than the past they left behind. They have lost a year while the world moved forward and he doesn’t know a thing about Lavellan. He barely knows his name.

But seeing the fractured world that will come to pass without this man’s intervention is eye-opening; Dorian can’t stop watching him afterwards.

‘Hero’ is still a big word, but Dorian doesn’t scoff when he hears the title Herald spoken with awe after that.

 

i. Walking Bomb

The last time Dorian believed in a hero, which coincidentally had also been the first time, it did not go well.

He likes to think he learned from that mistake.

At nine years old, Dorian knows exactly what he wants to be: A Magister worthy of House Pavus. He wants this because that’s what his father is. He dedicates himself to the goal with the unadulterated fervor of a child; he watches his father and mimics all his mannerisms to a fault. The mirror in his room serves as the court in which he can try his hand at imagined politics, playing the role of his father, as he carefully crafts each bow, expression, and gesture.

His father catches him trying on his ceremonial robes, the ones reserved for the most special of occasions with intricate writings laboriously laid into the collar and sleeves in shining gold threads. The sleeves are twice the length of Dorian’s arms and the body of the robe is no better, but in the bright cloth, he feels powerful and ready to conquer.

“Dorian, my robes are not toys,” Halward says, voice heavy against Dorian’s heart with the weight of his disappointment, “Take those off and take them to the servants. They will need to be cleaned and pressed now.”

Young Dorian blushes and does as he’s bid, embarrassment forming a heavy ball in his throat he cannot manage to speak around. He blinks against the burn under his eyelids.

He thinks of his father’s look at that moment when he sells his birthright.

If he expects it to feel like buying his own freedom, a petty sort of revenge for making him feel so small, he is sorely disappointed. The same hot wash of shame rises in his chest again, unmitigated by the years that have passed.

 

iv. Lingering Mark

Felix is the only one he tells before he leaves.

He leaves out the gory details. He certainly doesn’t mention how he found meticulous notes for a blood magic ritual—with Dorian himself as the centerpiece—on his father's desk. Or how he had burned the entire study to the ground in his anger.

Even so, the damn fool insists upon seeing him off, regardless of how overprotective Alexius has gotten.

"You’re brave," Felix says, and clasps Dorian’s hand with an unusual gravity. "I love you, my friend, and you'll be missed."

Dorian wants to echo the fraternal sentiment, but fears how it may be misconstrued coming from his mouth. Instead, he holds on, too tightly, and says, "What will you do with yourself without me to liven up your days? You’ll die of boredom within the week, I wager."

Later, once Felix is gone and Dorian spends even his sleepless nights curled around the reassuring warmth of the Inquisitor, he'll replay the other ways that old conversation should have gone— _would_ have gone if he was half the man Felix thought he was—and marvel at previously undiscovered levels of self-loathing.

It is made both better and worse by the fact he can purposefully jostle Lavellan, who will half-wake and reward him with a kiss.

 

vi. Despair

Dorian braces his hips against the man moving between his thighs. Lavellan rocks forward again, and Dorian might fall apart at the seams.

“Amatus,” he gasps.

It is not what he wants to say, but it is close.

Lavellan stops—though he is panting and flushed deliciously and his hard cock is still pressed tantalizingly inside Dorian’s body—so that he can run the pad of his callused thumb over the curve of Dorian’s cheek.

He answers, like it’s such a simple thing to say, “I love you.”

Dorian feels exposed, utterly inadequate under that relentless affection. He writhes impatiently, knocking the thumb inadvertently to the side, and whines, “Yes, that’s good and well, but, if it’s no great inconvenience, would you maybe start _moving_ again?” The words are mangled and for pity’s sake he _would_ chose the most frustrating man in Thedas.

If Lavellan’s brow furrows, it is balanced by the fond smile that curves his lips.

“Very well,” he agrees, and widens his stance so that Dorian is forced to spread his legs even further. The next thrust has Dorian scrabbling for a hold against Lavellan’s strong, lean shoulders. Those shoulders do not look sturdy enough to bear the weight of the world—plus Dorian’s faults on top of that—but withstand the strain nonetheless. He digs the fingers of both of his hands into the muscle there.

In the unlikely scenario of their mutual survival, he thinks, when Corypheus is relegated to the annals of history where he belongs, when they both know what the future holds, he’ll tell Lavellan then.

He will.

 

ii. Horror

It is not an arranged marriage, if only because it lacks formality. But the expectation is no less constricting for the absence of binding agreements. There is no confusion: This is the girl he is meant to marry.

On the morning they are to be introduced, his father pushes a bloodstone amulet into Dorian’s hand. It is meant to be a gift for his dear bride-to-be. Dorian had no hand in its selection. He is too young for his taste to be trusted in choosing a token, never mind any input on his future spouse. Not that any of his choices would be acceptable anyway. He has no hand in any of this. He clutches the stone in his hand so hard that the painful edges become indented into his skin.

The meeting is what Dorian imagined it would be.

Their parents hover, watching closely, ready to intervene should the meeting go badly. It is not unlike getting two skittish dogs accustomed to each other. The sun shines brightly, lighting the room and shining against her smooth, long hair. He does not know what to say to her. She studies him in turn. Although her mouth is smiling, her eyes are shrewd.

"I think I might be half in love with you already,” she says, carelessly. The sentiment is so hollow it rips the air from Dorian’s lungs. They're just words, nothing more than a gambit played to see how he reacts, but he can't help flinching. Her smiles cools further. She continues, “I’m sure that our marriage will be beneficial for both our families.”

The ringing in his ears is so loud he does not notice the amulet strike the ground where it drops, forgotten, from his hand.

“Yes, well,” he says, unable to hear his own voice, “We’ll both be miserable, but at least we’ll make a rather handsome pair while wanting to kill ourselves. Or each other.”

Once he can distinguish sound from the white noise of his panic again, the first thing he hears is his mother tutting in his ear as she smooths her palms along his shoulders in a gentle warning:

“Behave, Dorian! Where _are_ your manners?”

 

vii. Blinding Terror

Lavellan nearly dies.

To be fair, he nearly dies with a frequency that is downright disconcerting. An honest historian will document it as his favorite hobby. Yes, they’ll say, it’s a wonder Dread Inquisitor Lavellan ever made any progress at all, given his habit of dangling his life in front of fate like a fisherman might use a lure.

But this time Dorian’s hands have not stopped trembling for days. He closes his eyes and cannot stop seeing the events unfold right in front of his face:

Lavellan sending him and the others ahead out of the Fade.

That long beat in which Dorian was certain in every particle of his sinking heart that Lavellan wouldn’t follow, would forever be lost in that nightmare realm, would never again smile and speak of love or _anything_ again.

And his first thought was: ‘This is it. This is where I finally lose him.’

His second thought: ‘I won’t forgive him for this.’

Luckily, Lavellan’s talent for putting himself at death’s door is rivaled only by his ability to beat long odds. He bulls ahead, molding the world around him to his formidable will and complete lack of common sense. Even death, it seems, can’t help but submit to his wishes.

Dorian cannot speak except to bite out clipped complaints the entire journey back to Skyhold.

Falling for a hero was bad enough, he doesn’t particularly like the idea of loving a martyr.

 

iii. Simulacrum

Alexius watches Dorian carefully as they venture into the realm of necromancy long before Dorian’s peers will get the chance. He thinks he sees Alexius watch most closely when Felix and Dorian are together. He cannot be sure. Sometimes he believes he’s becoming paranoid.

Justified or not, Dorian would very much like to scream at the man. He hasn't so much as raided his mentor's liquor stash, much less made unsavory designs on his precious son.

He grits his teeth, not quite having grown into the affected apathy that allows him to loose barbs at those dearest to him, and he works all the harder.

Eventually, Alexius teaches him how to allow a spirit to take his face and form so that the spirit may fight on in his stead when Dorian no longer can. The first time he tries the spell, he is unconscious—by necessity—but he wakes with the distinct memory of watching himself cast spells like a marionette, limbs yanked around by something out of his control.

Dorian catches himself from laughing in the middle of his and Alexius’ session. It is a close thing. But can he be blamed? How often does life offer up such a perfect metaphor?

Instead of laughing, he finishes as quickly as he can. That night, he steals the remainder of a bottle of brandy from Alexius' cabinet. He doesn't even think to share it with Felix. The darkness that follows is a welcome oblivion.

 

viii. Virulent

Lavellan survives.

They _both_ survive.

He’s not sure whether he should credit the miracle to Andraste, the Maker, or Lavellan at this point. Or if it makes any difference. It is a miracle; as far as he can tell, neither he or Lavellan even manage to lose any terribly important limbs or bits in the chaos.

He tries to keep his resolution to broach the whole mess of his feelings with Lavellan, he does.

With a little planning, aided by no small amount of liquid courage, he gets the Inquisitor alone in his room after the festivities. The sun has accommodated the occasion with an appropriately romantic rosy-colored sunset.

Everything is as perfect as it can be.

When he opens his mouth, trying to form the words, the best he can manage is: “You are terribly dull and I hate you.”

Dorian only wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole until the Inquisitor smiles.

 

ix. For the Living, the Dead

“This is awfully domestic, considering you lead the continent’s largest military force. What would your troops say if they saw you cuddling— _cuddling!_ —with a Tevinter mage?” Dorian says. “The horror.”

Lavellan hums noncommittally into his hair from where he is wrapped along Dorian’s back. The book he was reading has slipped, Dorian notices, and lies half-open now against the arm of the chair they have managed to crawl into together. Dorian reads the last sentence of his own book again before setting it aside.

“Due to the fact that the library is so very far away and I’m so terribly comfortable, I’m afraid you’ll have to entertain me.”

“What were you reading?” Lavellan asks.

“Ah. Tales of the old magisters. I never did find all those answers I wanted about Corypheus’ origin. And I refuse to allow him even the slightest hint of mystique. That should be reserved for us dashing heroes, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lavellan says, in that tone that makes it clear he is only half-listening. He rubs one foot along Dorian’s calf.

“Well,” Dorian huffs, “What are you reading then? Military stratagem? Orlesian etiquette? One of Varric’s bawdier stories? With you it’s always so hard to guess.”

Lavellan tilts the book so that Dorian can read the cover: _Mythal and Other Dalish Deities._

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d be fairly familiar with anything in that.”

“It wasn’t written by one of the People. It’s interesting to see another perspective.”

“Well then, why not educate me? There’s few opportunities to do so, admittedly, so you might enjoy it.”

Lavellan nudges him in the side, aimed with precision at the sensitive skin under his ribs, for the remark. But he asks, “What would you like to hear?”

“Whatever you like. We’ve all heard a little about Mythal now, I suppose. It’s as good a starting point as any.”

“She serves in many roles. She's the Great Protector, the All-Mother, and the goddess of justice. And of love.”

“Ah, of course,” Dorian says, thinking about all the chances he has had to tell Lavellan how he cares for him. It’s a wonder Mythal hasn’t struck him down personally for the coward he is, human or not.

Lavellan kisses his cheek. “I do love you, Dorian.”

Dorian’s frustration mounts, pacing in his chest, because he knows. It would be impossible not to know. The furthest corner of the Hissing Wastes is probably well aware that the Inquisitor is in love with a Tevinter mage, but even Dorian cannot be sure that Lavellan knows the sentiment is returned.

That is exactly the problem.

“Here I expected at least some teasing for interrupting your education with a sappy moment. No comment? Not a ‘how could you not’ or a jab at my sentimentality?”

Dorian shifts around in the chair so he can look Lavellan in the face. A few more inches to the left and he would be straddling Lavellan’s lap.

“You say it so easily.”

Lavellan bites his lip, thinking for a moment before he speaks. Rather than answer, he asks, “Have you loved anyone before?” It’s said without judgment, without inflection.

He loved Felix like a brother. And although it is nearly drown in clinging bitterness and distrust, he loves his parents in spite of himself. He loved Alexius, in a way. There were many lovers, who might as well be nameless and faceless now for all they matter. Nothing compares. Dorian has no frame of reference that could possibly help him here.

Lavellan kisses him again, on the lips this time. The press of skin is reassuring and familiar.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t need to say it, Dorian.”

“Amatus,” Dorian answers, his breath suddenly shuddering. Lavellan’s eyes warm at the endearment, raw as it is around the edges, and Dorian thinks that maybe this isn’t so hard after all. He shifts those last few inches, rolling his hips down as he does. Lavellan groans low in his throat and grabs at Dorian’s arms to draw him in closer. Dorian says it again, breath somewhat steadier as it brushes across the last hint of space between his and Lavellan’s mouth: “ _Amatus_.”


End file.
